


my heart in hiding stirred for a bird

by sophiegaladheon



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Past Child Abuse, Sewing, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:06:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21833398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiegaladheon/pseuds/sophiegaladheon
Summary: Maia tries to help Ino and ends up surprising everyone.
Comments: 54
Kudos: 265
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	my heart in hiding stirred for a bird

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arsenic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, Arsenic! I was inspired by your prompt asking for Maia having skills he hides from others because he's learned to be ashamed of them. I hope you enjoy this take on it! 
> 
> The title is from Gerard Manley Hopkins' poem _The Windhover_.

If anyone were to ask—not that anyone would, for who would ask such a question of the emperor, but if someone did—Maia would freely admit that he did not have much experience with young children. Truly, he did not have _any_ experience with young children, excepting that which he had gained over the past few months of visits with his young cousins. Such, he supposed, was the natural outcome for one with no younger siblings and an isolated upbringing.

That his inexperience was unexpected, however, was not much assistance in the face of the tear-streaked cheeks and quivering chin Ino turned to him now, trying valiantly to keep her posture straight and her watery gaze steady. She was, despite her age, doing a respectable job of maintaining her composure. Drazhada children do not throw tantrums, Maia thought, with a twinge of bitterness, quickly brushed aside. Drazhada children waited patiently to be asked what was wrong, even if they had to linger back while their siblings were led back to the nursery after agonizing all of breakfast to do it.

“I’m sorry, Cousin Maia, I tore it,” Ino said, her voice as wobbly as her lip before she pressed them together tightly.

“What didst thou tear?” Maia asked carefully.

In a sudden jerk, Ino thrust out a clenched fist, dropping a crumpled ball of something into his lap.

“I’m sorry, it was supposed to be a present, I wanted to show thee what I learned. I’ve been practicing really hard and I have become quite good! But I tore it, and Dinan said it was all for nothing and I should not have wasted my time and that you would not have appreciated it anyway and now I have upset breakfast and . . . I’m sorry.” 

It took Maia a minute to parse the rush of words, the disjointed explanation rushing together in an emotional jumble. He carefully unfolded the crumpled mass in his lap, smoothing out the corners until it lay flat. 

Two halves of an embroidery sampler lay before him, the alphabet surrounded by flowers marred only by the jagged tear that split the fabric in two, right down the middle. It was lovely work, Maia noted that the stitches were small and carefully even, the decoration perhaps sparse but evidencing meticulous effort. It was quite an impressive feat, for someone of Ino’s young age. He could see where she would improve with time, in the evidence of so many unpicked stitches, but it was clear his cousin worked hard on her stitching and was careful of her work. Which made him wonder.

“How is it that it tore?” he asked as he lined up the pieces so the rent edges were in alignment. It was perhaps fortunate it tore where it did, straight down the middle, along the grain of the fabric, not catching on any of the embroideries.

He looked up in time to catch Ino’s embarrassed flush and mentally chastised himself for his error. He had not wished to add to his cousin’s distress. Before he could call back his words, however, she answered.

“It got caught. Mireän says I should be more careful and not run around so much. It was my fault; I should have been more careful.”

Maia caught himself at a sigh as he looked between the torn embroidery and Ino’s downturned face. He truly wished he could protect his cousins from the twists and turns of politics and protocol in the Untheileneise Court, but that he could not do—even the youngest of them was already far too aware of the strictest details and had been since before he himself had come to court. 

But this at least was something small enough he could fix. He did not know why showing him her embroidery was so important to Ino, other than he remembered at her age everything being bigger and more important. But because it is important to her he would show it the consideration it deserves.

“It’s quite alright, Ino, come sit down,” he said, patting at the sofa cushion next to him. “It’s not terribly damaged.”

“Cousin Maia, it’s in two pieces,” she said plaintively, as though vaguely concerned Maia had not noticed.

Maia felt his mouth twisting in to a grin, which Ino tentatively returned, still confused. “Yes, but it is in _only_ two pieces. It should not be too difficult to fix. Might we get a needle and thread?”

The last was addressed to Csevet, who had been politely ignoring the exchange as he sorted the emperor’s correspondence at his desk.

With a quiet word Csevet produced, in just a few minutes, a whole basket of sewing notions—needles, thread, pins, thimbles, buttons, and half a dozen other things Maia recognized but wouldn’t know how to use. There are days—many of them—that Maia gives fervent, silent thanks for his efficient, competent secretary. Other days, when matters are less grave, he can barely restrain his delighted laughter.

Sometimes he thinks Csevet catches the humorous twinkle in his eyes, and he hopes he understands there is no ill will in it.

Maia swiftly searched through the notions and plucked out a spool of plain white thread and a paper of needles. Upon a second thought, he takes a cushion of straight pins as well—they are not necessary, but perhaps it will make the demonstration easier.

“It cannot be fixed,” Ino said, watching intently as Maia folded the jagged, frayed edges of the torn fabric over and pinned them together, paying careful attention to ensure the pattern of embroidery is aligned. “It’s torn right in the middle.”

“That is true,” Maia said as he threaded a needle. “It will never look the same as it did before. But that does not mean it cannot be fixed.”

It is a familiar rhythm that he falls into as he stitches, his hands quick and sure. A stitch in the fold of one of the torn pieces, then a stitch on the other side. Back and forth, back and forth, quick as a wink he has stitched up the length of the fabric. He takes out the last pin, takes hold of both ends of the thread, and gently pulls until all the slack goes taught, pulling the folded edges flush together.

“There,” he said as he tied off and finished the repair, “I told you it could be fixed. See?”

He pressed the fabric flat on his lap once more and Ino craned to look.

The evidence of damage was obvious, the tear running as it did through the middle of the fabric, but the seam was neat and tidy, as flat and straight as it could possibly be. Ino gasped.

“Thou fixed it!” She turned to him, eyes sparkling, “Thank you, Cousin Maia. May I take it back to show Mireän?”

“Of course.” He smiled as Ino practically skipped out of the room. He could hear her happy chatter to Min Zhavanin as they leave back to the nursery.

He was still smiling as he tucked the needle and thread back into the basket until he froze, hands caught on the wicker weave as Cala spoke.

“That was well done, Serenity. Where did you learn thus?”

Maia could feel the lines of wickerwork cutting into his fingers as he gripped the edge of the basked, his ears flicking back in agitation. His secretary and nohecharei caught the sudden tension in his posture and an echoing stiffness calcified in their own forms.

He took a careful breath, and another. He has nothing to fear here; there is no one to see or hear him but three of those who he would trust over any other. Carefully, slowly, he let go of the basket and slid his hands into his lap.

“We have found it is sometimes . . . useful,” necessary, he does not say, “to know how to make repairs.” Because we did not always have so many fine clothes, he does not say, because there was not always someone to patch them for us.

“It is a useful skill, Serenity,” Cala replies neutrally.

Maia took the opening he was given—he appreciated that they gave him the opportunity to speak, he was grateful he had the choice to decline. This time he chose not to. “Our cousin thought it . . . undignified.” There was a host of meaning hidden in those few words. Maia did not elaborate; his audience knew enough to parse the truth.

“It is a useful skill,” said Beshelar, breaking the silence. His face wore a thunderous scowl but he spoke with the definitive authority as was his wont.

“Indeed,” said Cala, “And you have proven yourself a most skillful practitioner.”

Maia laughed. “We are hardly that, the best we can hope for is merely competent.”

“It seems to me, Serenity, that you are quite skillful enough to mend what was broken and bring joy to Ino,” Csevet said softly, drawing Maia’s attention back to him. “Your skill is commensurate to your needs.”

Maia allowed himself a small smile at the thought of Ino’s wide-eyed delight at the sight of her mended sewing. Perhaps that was enough, he thought, as he turned from the shades of the past to the bureaucratic realities of the present. Perhaps.


End file.
